CHAPTER IX
MOTHER BRITA'S GRANDCHILD
It was an afternoon in the spring. There had been a heavy fall of snow the day before and then suddenly a thaw set in. So very warm was the air and the sun so burning hot that the water from the roof gutters came rushing and tumbling out in regular waterfalls; and big snowslides from the housetops thumped down everywhere, making a rumbling noise all along the streets.
The walking I won't try to describe. There were no paths made, just the frightfully soft melting snow, so deep that it came exactly half-way to your knees. So there wasn't much pleasure in walking, I assure you; and we hadn't a thing to do.
The steamships from both east and west were delayed by the snow-storm, so there was no fun in going to the wharf and hanging around there. Usually it is amusing enough,—always something new to see and something happening; and now and then we have fun seeing the queer seasick people on board the ships. Just outside of our town there is a horribly rough place in the sea where cross currents meet, and the passengers look forlorn enough when the ship gets to the wharf.
But all this isn't really what I meant to tell about now; I started to tell about the afternoon when we played a lot of pranks simply because there wasn't a thing else to do. Truly, that was the reason. Now you shall hear.
Karen, Mina, Munda, and I were together that afternoon. Not a person was to be seen on the street and it was disgustingly quiet and dull everywhere. The only pleasant thing was that there came a tremendously big heavy snowslide right down on the little shoemaker, Jorgen.
The only pleasant thing was that there came a tremendously big, heavy snowslide right down on the little shoemaker.—Page 123.
Well, I don't mean that that was a pleasure exactly, you understand, but it made a little variety.
Just as he came around the corner, by Madam Lindeland's, b-r-r-r! there was a rumbling above, and down upon him slid a whole mass of snow from Madam Lindeland's steep sloping roof. He was knocked completely over, and all we could see of him was a bit of his old brown blouse sticking up through the snow.
In a flash Mina, Munda, Karen, and I were on the spot, digging him out with our hands. Before you could count ten, he was up, but you had better believe he was angry! Not at us exactly, but at the snow, and the thaw, and the town itself that was so badly arranged that people walking in the streets might be killed before they knew it.
"Preposterous, the whole business," grumbled the shoemaker. "Who would dream that there would be such a thaw right on top of such an unreasonable snow-storm—and in March, too!"
Then he noticed that he had lost his cap, so we dug in the snow again, searching for it, and had lots of fun before we finally found it.
All this excitement over the snowslide made us crazy for more fun, and we decided that we would go to Madam Graaberg and ask her if she had white velvet to sell. Madam Graaberg has a little shop in a basement and sells almost nothing but lu-de-fisk (fish soaked in lye, with a rank odor).
First we peeped in the window between the glasses of groats. Yes, there were many people in the shop and Madam Graaberg stood behind the counter as usual. She is as big as three ordinary women and her eyes are as black as two bits of coal; and my! how they can flash!
We plumped ourselves down into the shop, all four of us. It smelled frightfully of lu-de-fisk and the whole floor was like a puddle from all the wet feet. A fine place to go to ask for white velvet! And Madam Graaberg has an awful temper, let me tell you!
There were many customers to be waited on before us, so we stood together in a bunch at the farthest end of the counter. The time dragged on and on before they had all got their lu-de-fisk, for that was what they wanted, the whole swarm of them.
On the counter beside me, there was a big new ball of string in an iron frame, the kind that whirls around when you pull the string. The end of the string dangled so invitingly close to me, and waiting for Madam Graaberg to be ready to attend to us was so tedious, that I busied myself with taking the end of the string and slyly tying it fast to one of the buttons on the back of Munda's coat. Of course I meant to untie the string before we went out, but Madam Graaberg turned suddenly to us.
"What do you want, children?" asked she, portly and dignified, towering over the counter.
We were all a little bewildered because she had come to us so abruptly, but we pushed Munda forward. My, how uncomfortable she looked!
"Have you any white velvet for sale?" asked Munda feebly.
I gave a spring towards the door, for it seemed best to get away at once. Two maids stood there, who roared with laughter. "Ha ha! Ha ha! Madam Graaberg, that's pretty good. Ha ha!"
"White velvet," hissed Madam Graaberg. "White velvet! Make a fool of me in my own lawful business, will you? Out of my shop this instant!"
She didn't need to tell us twice. We dashed helter-skelter out of the door, all four of us, splashing the mud and slush recklessly.
Suddenly Munda cried out, "Oh, I'm fast to something! I'm fast to something behind!"
Just think! I had forgotten to untie the string from the button! I thought I heard a buzzing noise when we flew out of the door, but it never occurred to me that it could be the string-ball whirling around in its frame.
There was no time now to untie the knot, for Madam Graaberg was right out in the street and calling after us. They were not exactly gentle words she was using, either, you may well believe!
"Oh, but I'm fast—I'm fast!" shrieked Munda again.
"Tear off the button!" I shouted. Munda made some desperate efforts to get hold of her own back. No use; so I took hold of the string and gave a great jerk and off came the button. Munda was free and we dashed round the street corner.
"Uh, uh huh!" sobbed Munda. "Mother'll be so angry about that button!"
"Pooh!" said I. "Just sew the hole up, and you can always find a button to put over it. But oh, girls! How jolly angry Madam Graaberg was!"
"Yes, and wasn't she funny when she said, 'Out of my shop this instant'?"
We were tremendously pleased with our joke. We talked and laughed—enjoying ourselves immensely; but we hadn't had enough tomfoolery yet.
"Girls," I said, "now let's go to Nibb's shop and ask whether he has white velvet."
All were willing. To think of asking that queer Mr. Nibb for white velvet, when he kept only shoe-strings and paraffin for sale! My! but that would be fun! Mr. Nibb always has the window shades tight down over his shop windows, so that not the least thing can be seen from the street. He isn't exactly right in his mind—and do you know what he did once?
It was in church and I sat just in front of him and had on my flat fur cap. He is a great one to sing in church and he stands bolt upright and sings at the top of his voice. And just think! He laid his hymn-book on top of my cap just as if it were a reading desk, and I didn't dare to move my head because he might get in a rage if I did. So he sang and sang and sang, and I sat and sat there with the hymn-book on the top of my head.
Well—that was that time—but now we stood there in the street considering as to whether we should go in and ask him if he had white velvet.
"No, we surely don't dare to," said Karen.
"Oh, yes we do," said I. "He can't kill us."
"Who knows?" said Karen. "He isn't just like other people."
"Pooh! When there are four of us together——" No, they didn't want to—so I suddenly threw the shop door wide open and then we had to go in. Mr. Nibb came towards us bowing and bowing. We pushed Munda forward again.
"Have you any white——" began Munda in a shaking voice. And then our courage suddenly gave way and Karen, Mina, and I sprang to the door as quick as lightning, slamming the door after us, and not stopping until we were at the farther corner of the street. And then we saw that Munda wasn't with us! Why in the world hadn't she come out? What was happening to her? We rushed back and listened outside the shop door. Not a sound was to be heard. Karen and Mina were both as white as chalk.
"It's all your fault," they whispered to me. "Who knows what danger Munda is in?"
At that I was so frightened that I didn't know what I was doing, and I threw the door open at once.
There sat Munda on a chair in the middle of the shop, holding a big apple, and Mr. Nibb stood with his legs crossed, leaning against the counter in a jaunty attitude and talking to her.
"Are there many dances in the town nowadays—young ladies?" asked Mr. Nibb, turning to us, as we, pale as death, entered the shop.
No answer.
"Or engagements among the young people perhaps," he continued—polite to the last degree.
"People live so quietly in this town;—one might call himself buried alive here, so that a visit from four promising young beauties is—ahem—an adventure!"
Dear me! how comical he was! None of us said a word. Suddenly Munda got up.
"A thousand thanks," she said and curtsied—the apple in her hand.
"Thank you," we echoed, all curtseying; though really I haven't the least idea what we were thanking him for!
"Ah—bah!" said Mr. Nibb waving his hand. "It is I who must thank you. I am much indebted to the young ladies for this delightful call."
With this he opened the door, and came away out on the steps and bowed.
Oh, how we laughed when he had gone in and the door was shut again. We laughed so we could scarcely stand.
"What did he do when you were alone, Munda?"
"He sprang after a chair," said Munda. "And then he sprang after an apple—and then he stood himself there by the counter just as you saw him and began to talk—oh! how frightened I was!"
"What did he say?"
"Ha ha! he—ha ha!—he asked me if I were engaged!"
"Ha ha ha! that was splendid."
"And just then you all came in."
"Ha ha! Ha ha ha!"
By this time it was so late that we must start for home and we took the quickest way, over High Street. It was almost dark and there was scarcely a person in sight, as we ran up the street through the March slush and mud.
"Oh, let's knock on Mother Brita's windows!" said I, and we knocked gaily on the little panes as we ran past the house.
At that moment Mother Brita called from her doorway.
"Halloa!" she called. "Come here a minute. God be praised that any one should come! Let me speak to you."
We went slowly back. Perhaps she was angry with us for knocking on her windows.
"Here I am as if I were in prison," said Mother Brita. "My little grandchild is sick with bronchitis and I can't leave him a single minute; and my son John, you know him, is out there at Stony Point with his ship, and is going to sail away this very evening, and he sails to China to be gone two years,—and I want so much to say good-bye to him—two whole years—to China—but I can't leave that poor sick baby in there, for he chokes if some one doesn't lift him up when the coughing spells come on—oh, there he's coughing again!"
Mother Brita hurried in, and all four of us after her. A tiny baby lay there in a cradle, and Mother Brita lifted him and held him up while the coughing spell lasted. He coughed so hard that he got quite blue in the face.
"O dear! You see how it is! Now he'll go away—my son John—this very evening, and I may never see him again in this world, uh-huh-huh!"
Poor Mother Brita! It seemed a sin and a shame that she should not at least see her son to bid him good-bye.
"I'll sit here with the baby until you come back, Mother Brita," said I.
"Yes, I will too."
"So will I, and I." All four of us wanted to stay.
"Oh, oh! What kind little girls!" said Mother Brita. "I will fly like the wind. Just raise him up when the spells come on. I won't be long on the way either going or coming. Well, good-bye, and I'm much obliged to you." With that Mother Brita was out of the house, having barely taken time to throw a handkerchief over her head.
There we sat. It was a strange ending to an afternoon of fun and mischief. The room was very stuffy; a small candle stood on the table and burned with a long, smoky flame, and back in a corner an old clock ticked very slowly, tick—tock!—tick—tock!
We talked only in whispers. Very soon the baby had another coughing fit. We raised him up and he choked and strangled as before, and after the coughing, cried as if in pain, without opening his eyes. Poor little thing! Poor baby!
Again we sat still for a while without speaking; then—"I'm so frightened—everything is so dismal," whispered Karen.
Deep silence broken only by the clock's ticking and the baby's breathing.
"I think I must go," she added after a minute.
"That is mean of you," whispered I.
"I must go, too," whispered Munda. "They are always so anxious at home when I don't come."
"I must go too," whispered Mina.
Then I got a little angry. "Oh well, all right, go, every one of you! All right, go on, if you want to be so mean."
And only think, they did go! They ran out of the door, all three, without a word more. Just then the baby had another attack and I had to hold him up quite a long time before he could get his breath again.
And now I was all alone in Mother Brita's little house. Never in my life had I been in there before, and it was anything but pleasant, you may well believe. It was very dark in all the corners, and the poor baby coughed and coughed; the candle burned lower and lower and the clock ticked on slowly and solemnly. No sign of Mother Brita.
Well, I would sit here. I wouldn't stir from here even if Mother Brita didn't come back before it was pitch-dark night—no, indeed, I would not. I would not. Not for anything would I leave this pitiful little suffering baby alone.
He was certainly very sick, very, very sick; perhaps God would come to take him to-night. Just think, if He should come while I sat there!——
At first this made me feel afraid, but then I thought that I need not be afraid of God—of Him who is kinder than any one in the world! The baby coughed painfully and I lifted him up again.
Everything was so queer, so wonderfully queer! First had we four been racing about, playing pranks and thinking only of fun all the afternoon—perhaps it was wrong to play such mischievous pranks—and now here was I alone taking care of a little baby I had never known anything about;—a little baby that God or His angels might soon come for and take away. I had not the least bit of fear now. I only felt as if I were in church,—it was so solemn and so still. In a little while, this poor baby might be in Heaven,—in that beautiful place flooded with glorious light,—with God. And I, just a little girl down here on earth, was I to be allowed to sit beside the baby until the angels came for him?
I looked around the bare, gloomy room. It might be that the angels who were to take away Mother Brita's grandchild were already here. Oh, how good it would be for the poor little baby who coughed so dreadfully!
The clock had struck for half-past seven, for eight o'clock, and half-past eight, and there was just a small bit left of the candle. The sick baby had quieted down at last, and now lay very still.
There came a rattling at the door; some one fumbled at the latch and I stared through the gloom with straining eyes, making up my mind not to be afraid. The door opened slowly a little way, and Ingeborg, our cook, put her round face into the opening.
"Well, have I found you at last? And is it here you are? I was to tell you to betake yourself home. Your mother and father have been worrying themselves to pieces about you, and——"
"Hush, Ingeborg! Be still. He is so sick, so very sick."
Ingeborg came over to the cradle and bent down. Then she hurriedly brought the bit of candle to the cradle.
"Oh, he is dead," she said slowly. "Poor little thing! He is dead,—poor little chap!"
"Oh no, Ingeborg, no!" I sobbed. "Is he dead? For I lifted him up every single time he coughed. Oh, it is beautiful that he is dead, he suffered so, and yet,—oh, it seems sad, too!"
"I will stay here with him now until Mother Brita comes home," said Ingeborg. "For you——"
"How did you know I was here?"
"Why, Karen and Munda came into the kitchen just a few minutes ago, and told me."
She said again that she would stay in my place, but I couldn't bear to go before Mother Brita came back.
Shortly after, Mother Brita hurried in, warm, and out of breath. "Oh, oh! how long you have had to wait," she said in distress. "I couldn't find John at Stony Point, I had to go away into town. I suppose you are angry that I stayed so long."
"The baby had to give up the fight, Mother Brita," said Ingeborg.
"Give up? What? What do you say?"
"I lifted him up, Mother Brita, every time he coughed, I did truly," said I, and then I burst out crying again. I couldn't help it.
"Yes, I am sure you did, my jewel," said Mother Brita, "and God be praised that He has taken the baby out of his poor little body. Never can pain or sin touch him now."
Mother and Father said that I had done just right to stay, and when Mother kissed me good-night she said she was sure that the dear God Himself had been with me and the poor little baby. And that seemed so wonderful and beautiful and solemn that I could never tell any one, even Mother, how beautiful it was.
Up in the churchyard there is a tiny grave, the grave of Mother Brita's grandchild. I know very well just where it is and I often put flowers upon it in the summer. What I like best to put there are rosebuds, fresh, lovely, pink rosebuds.